Goodnight, Darling
by Stupid Mr. Park
Summary: Focusing on Gluskin and his bride. Based on Outlast: Whistleblower (Outlast DLC), so there will be spoilers! Also, contains open Weddie (Eddie Gluskin / Waylon Park) references. Rated T for violence and gore (no swearing).
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Dar-ling?"

The voice echoed through the dusty room, ricocheting off the crumbling walls, so it sounded like a million men calling out.

Waylon Park was crouching behind a cabinet. His breathing was deafeningly loud, his heart a bass drum. His trembling hands held a battered camcorder. A barely audible continuous bleeping told him that it was almost out of life. He put his last battery into it, filling the battery gauge, and turned the night vision off to save power.

There was another battery on a table two meters away. Maybe if he-

"Where are you, darling?"

Waylon froze. The sing-song voice came from the other side of the cabinet; a heavy hand rested on the top with a dull clang.

Eddie Gluskin, the groom of Mount Massive Asylum, was looking for his bride.

Waylon prayed Gluskin didn't come around the cabinet. He could hear the insane variant humming 'I Want A Girl' under his breath.

Eddie Gluskin was a sociopathic, deluded and misogynistic man, dressed in patchy groom attire, who seemed intent on making Waylon his bride.

Thoughts of what he could do kept surfacing in Waylon's mind; images seared into his retinas that could never be erased.

"Darling!"

Two strong hands clamped onto Waylon's shoulders. He stifled a cry as he was dragged over the cabinet. Gluskin was regarding him with a bright smile.

"My, don't you like to play hard to get?" he said warmly. "Well, no more of that, I need to make you my bride, and a woman must be presentable on her wedding day!"

He tutted as Waylon struggled to free himself. "I said no more of that, darling. You must be so eager for us to join in marriage, but you must be patient."

Waylon felt like screaming as Gluskin's right hand wrapped around his left, leading him away. His other hand, palm and fingers sweaty, clenched around the camera. It was still filming, pointing at the floor. Just as he was about to leave it behind, to keep it away from Gluskin, it slipped from his fingers. The groom stopped when he heard the metallic sound.

"What's that?"

Gluskin bent and picked up the camcorder. He looked at Waylon with a surprised expression. "A camera, darling?"

He let go of Waylon's hand for a few seconds and turned the camera over. A frown broke out over his face. He grasped Waylon's hand again before the man could run and kept on walking, holding tightly onto the camera now. Waylon felt a lump in his throat that wouldn't go away. Fear knotted his stomach; a cold sweat lay over him like a second skin.

He was led down a maze of corridors until he had forgotten his way to freedom. Gluskin closed every door behind them to make sure Waylon's escape would be hindered. If he even tried to escape.

"Here we are," came Gluskin's voice. To Waylon, most of the journey had been in total darkness; without the camera's night vision, he was blind.

Now, in the dim light, he could see something pale and tall, looming from the darkness a few meters away. Squinting, he recognised the shape. Gluskin saw his scrutiny.

"Yes, darling, it's your wedding dress. I made it myself in the hope that you would wear it someday."

Although Gluskin's voice was polite and gentle, Waylon was terrified of the groom. There was a small thud as the man in question, still holding Waylon's hand tight, placed the camera down and approached the dress. He laid a hand across the dress lovingly.

"Don't you see?" he asked, turning. "I exist only for you."

Waylon recoiled as Gluskin placed a hand on his shoulder. The groom smiled before steering Waylon into a chair, which was in the shadows close to the dress. Waylon found himself pushed into the chair. Gluskin tightened straps around his wrists before noticing his prisoner's fearful expression.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, darling, it's all for your own good," he said sadly. Waylon lowered his eyes silently.

Leaving Waylon in the chair, Gluskin went back over to the camera. It was still recording. The room was dim, but light enough for the camera to video without night vision. He pointed the lens at Waylon before going to the dress. He took it from the mannequin and came back to Waylon; holding the dress up against Waylon's chest, Gluskin smiled. It was a perfect fit.

Waylon couldn't take it anymore. He inhaled in a shaking, sobbing breath that was clearly audible. Gluskin paused and stood up straight, holding the wedding dress in one hand. His brow furrowed as he looked down at Waylon.

"Are you scared of me?" he questioned in a low, somehow dangerous voice. Waylon's bottom lip was trembling involuntarily like he was a child; the lump in his throat was so great now that it threatened to choke him. Gluskin repeated the question like a warning and Waylon shook his head slowly, too terrified to nod. His eyes stung and he looked up at Gluskin. His vision blurred, his eyes watering.

Gluskin didn't notice. He glanced at the dress like it was now an afterthought before sighing. He loosened the straps around Waylon's wrists and, for a wild fleeting moment, Waylon thought he was being freed. This hope was dashed as Gluskin handed over the dress as carefully as if it was a newborn child.

"I want to see you with it," he murmured. Waylon's heart sank as he was pointed to space behind a wide door, which was propped against a corner where two walls met to form a makeshift screen. He stepped into the darkness, hidden from Gluskin's sight. He held out the dress gingerly.

Could he make a run for it? If Gluskin turned his back to the screen, maybe Waylon would be able to stuff the dress over his head and run out. He risked the quickest glance. Gluskin was stood facing the crude screen intently, arms crossed.

Damn. No chance.

Waylon withdrew and leaned into the corner where the walls met opposite the screen, clutching the dress to his chest. Breathing deeply, he wondered if Gluskin would get bored soon.

"Darling? Are you all right?"

There it was, Gluskin's constantly tender voice, no trace of boredom behind it. Waylon closed his eyes and thought of Lisa, biting his lip. He had to do it. Otherwise, Gluskin would go to see why he wasn't emerging.

First, Waylon took the sickly yellow jumpsuit off, shivering as the coldness of the air hit his skin. He could hear Gluskin humming again.

Then Waylon stared at the dress, wondering how to put it on; he decided the best way was to pull it over his head. The double layer of skirts was strange against his legs and he was unaccustomed to having a bodice on. But, as uncomfortable as it was for him, Waylon had to reluctantly admit to himself that Gluskin had good dressmaking skills.

Swallowing his pride and the last ounce of dignity he had, Waylon Park took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Eddie Gluskin's eyes widened a fraction as his bride came into view. The dress fit her as he had made it to, the skirts flaring out slightly before falling to the floor.

Waylon was shaking. However well made, the dress would never feel right. Gluskin didn't think this.

"Darling, you look so beautiful," he gasped. He moved closer to see better. There were goosebumps on Waylon's arms which weren't from the chilly air, and Gluskin saw.

Waylon flinched as gelid hands touched his arms. He saw something gleam and was about to run when the groom did something unexpected.

Gluskin drew him into an embrace, wrapping his arms around Waylon's back. Waylon's arms were suspended; he didn't know what to do, so he awkwardly touched Gluskin's back. His chin rested on top of Gluskin's shoulder.

"I'm so happy for us," Gluskin said. He let go before holding out the thing that had glinted before. It was an engagement ring, polished but scratched, as if it had been taken from a previous owner. He looked at Waylon.

"Darling …"

He didn't say anymore. It was obvious what he was doing, and he knew Waylon knew. He waited for a response.

Waylon swallowed hard. He wondered where his own wedding ring had gone; it wasn't the one Gluskin was offering, that one was different, but he didn't remember losing his own.

He remembered his proposal to Lisa and he remembered their children, their two sons. The three faces were like a dream; he could barely recall their faces.

Waylon looked down at the ring, then back to Gluskin's face.

He wondered how his sons would feel if they could see him as he opened his cracked lips, no voice coming out, as he tried to answer Gluskin.

He wondered how Lisa would feel if she could see him eventually nod, defeated.

He wondered how betrayed and abandoned they would all feel if they could see Gluskin take Waylon's left hand and slip the ring onto his finger.

Waylon knew, in a place like this, there would be no ceremony, no proper marriage, just the passage of a ring from the groom to his bride.

Gluskin looked at the camera. It had recorded it all. He turned away for a split second- and Waylon ran.

"NO!"

The anguished cry came from behind Waylon as he sprinted to the closest door, tearing it open and slamming it behind him.

Breath heaving, bare feet pounding the floor, Waylon made his way up a spiral of stairs that went up into darkness. He prayed Chris Walker and the rest of the Variants were nowhere near at this point in time.

Waylon's legs tangled in the skirts and he fell forwards, his chin slamming down; his teeth dug into his tongue and his mouth became awash with warm blood.

He could hear Gluskin ascending the stairs swiftly, getting closer, and struggled to his feet. There was a draft now, he was closer to air-

Waylon crashed through metal double doors and found himself on the roof of the asylum. Wind whipped at his dress and hair as he staggered forwards.

"Why would you run from me?"

Gluskin was through in the doorway, advancing towards Waylon. There was a note of desperation in his voice as he reached out. "Darling, why?"

Waylon backed away. He was three meters away from the edge of the roof. If he could jump over, would it all finally be ended?

"Don't," Gluskin begged. Waylon looked over his shoulder and saw that, past the roof, it stretched into darkness. As he made to leap Gluskin moved fast, grabbing onto the front of Waylon's bodice.

"What are you doing? Would you rather die than be my bride, darling?" he demanded over the howling wind. His expression darkened.

Waylon fruitlessly tried to bat Gluskin away as a hand bunched in his hair and held him out over the edge. The rush of adrenalin was gone now so he felt hollow and tired.

"I'm trying to be patient, darling. Stay with me," Gluskin said quietly. Waylon stopped struggling and he was drawn back, held close to Gluskin's chest. His legs shook and his mouth filled with blood.

With a last thought of Lisa, Waylon Park collapsed with stress and overwhelming exhaustion.

Gluskin looked down at his fallen bride before stooping and picking her up, bridal style. He made his way back to his room and looked at the table.

The table, spattered with dried blood, with a buzzsaw at one end and straps to restrict a person's movement.

Then he looked at his sleeping bride and his mouth thinned to a narrow line.

Gluskin placed her gently onto the table to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, as if she were dead, her mouth open a tiny bit. Her chest rose and fell irregularly. A bitter taste filled Gluskin's mouth. He ran a hand over the buzzsaw tenderly. He still needed to get rid everything vulgar, but to ruin the dress he had spent so long on …

The first thing Waylon noticed when he woke up was the unbearable pain. As soon as his eyes had fluttered open they screwed closed again and a harsh scream tore from his throat. He wanted to die he hurt so much.

Tears welled up, caused by the intolerable agony that was now paralyzing him. He tried to move but this only conjured another ragged cry.

Waylon looked around the room. He couldn't see Gluskin, so he looked down and saw the dress was still on him. A dark red line ran down the middle of his chest to his navel. Blossoming out from this line was more red, surreally bright. He gingerly pressed a fingertip to the line and sucked in a breath, stifling another cry. His fingertip came away from the wound looking as if it was daubed in red paint.

Waylon threw his head back, trying to assess the situation. Gluskin had cut him through the dress while he was unconscious, but not so badly yet, and he knew he had to escape before that happened.

Sitting up, the pain dulled to a throbbing ache. Waylon pressed a hand to his stomach before swinging his legs off the table and onto the floor. He heard footsteps and his blood chilled.

"Darling!" came a familiar voice. Waylon felt like crying, screaming and dying all at once.

Gluskin came from the darkness. He pushed Waylon back down.

"I'm delighted to see you eager to be up and about, darling, but you can't strain yourself just yet."

Waylon was hyperventilating, looking up at Gluskin with wide eyes. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat but found it had swollen enough to stop him from talking. Gluskin spoke to him.

"Hush, darling. Close your eyes. Don't try to speak."

His caring manner almost caused Waylon's tears to boil over. He wished nothing more than to curl into a ball and die a million times over from all the stress and fear and tension.

"You look so tired," Gluskin commented softly. He allowed Waylon to sit back up, supporting him with a hand. "Don't exhaust yourself just yet, darling. There's much more to go before you can rest fully."

Waylon clenched his fists and felt the ring dig into his taut fingers. Gluskin stood, regarding Waylon, before he strode off into the darkness. His voice echoed back.

"Don't go too far, now!"

Waylon remained on his back in the sparse light, staring at the ceiling. He looked at the buzzsaw.

How did it work? Was it efficient? Maybe if he used it on himself to get away from Gluskin …

No. He was not going to succumb to Gluskin's games. He was not going to commit suicide in the asylum. He was going to find his camera, return home, see Lisa and his sons, and-

And what? Tell them that, while he was away, he married a sociopathic, delusional, misogynistic serial killer who thought he was female?

They would either throw him in bedlam or leave him. Or both. He could imagine the ridiculous conversation in his head.

Good to see you again, Lisa. Oh, me? Don't worry, I just got married to a man. Who, you say? Nobody, really. You don't know him. But he is a murderer who sees men as women and singled me out. He proposed to me and I said yes.

Bang go the cell doors, out go the family. Bye bye Lisa. Everyone would think he was crazy.

That was it for Waylon. Although his story would be crazy, he would do anything to see Lisa's face again. Even risk being caught by Gluskin.

He stood up from the table, dizzy from blood loss. He pressed a sticky red palm to his face before stumbling forwards. He paused to listen closely. Nothing. Not even faint echoes of other Variants.

Waylon ran as quick as his body allowed, pushing past obstacles and crawling under tables; vaulting would cause the bleeding to start again.

He was just reaching for a closed door when a soft voice behind him said, "Darling, where are you going?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Waylon's hand was frozen an inch from the doorknob. There was no mistaking that voice. It was cool and calm, but laced with a venomous undertone.

Waylon didn't want to turn. He didn't want to face his impending doom, didn't want to see anything as he died. He would imagine Lisa as he was stabbed in the back.

He heard the floor creak as Gluskin stepped closer. It was in Waylon's instinct to turn yet he refused. He didn't want to see those terrible cold eyes as his last memory.

"I have tried to be patient with you, darling. In fact, I have pushed my patience to the limit. I have tried to dismiss your … mishaps as common games. You are testing that limit."

Gluskin was so close now. Waylon shut his eyes and waited for the end. The end didn't come.

"Why? What have I done to make you hate me? I try and I try and I try, and you all betray me. I thought you were different. You wear my ring, not as a gift, but as a burden. You falsely accepted it. Do you not love me?"

A hand came down on Waylon's shoulder, turning him to face Gluskin. He stared resolutely at the fraying bow tie. Anything to avoid Gluskin's inhuman eyes.

"Look at me."

Waylon refused. The three words were repeated with more emphasis and a hand gripped Waylon's chin, forcing him to look up.

"Do you hate me?" Gluskin catechized. Waylon swallowed for what seemed like the millionth time. He had vowed to only imagine Lisa but he was being made to look upon Death. Death stared back and repeated the question with a note of anger.

Waylon knew that, if he said he did, he would die an incredibly painful death. Yet there was no possible scenario where would say he didn't hate Gluskin, no possible scenario where he would give Gluskin what he wanted-

"Please don't test me, darling," Gluskin said, his voice quiet and bland. Every playful aspect about him had dissipated as Waylon had reached for the door.

What if he pretended to go along with Gluskin? What if he gained his trust and eventually managed to use Gluskin for a way out?

It was an awful plan but it was the only one Waylon had. He looked up at the groom and gave his answer.

Gluskin studied him carefully before smiling wanly. He took Waylon by the hand as he had done before and led him back to the room with the table. Waylon's heart began to thud as they neared and his palms were slick with sweat, but at least the bleeding from the cut along his midriff had stopped for now.

"No running off now, darling," Gluskin said. He stopped and looked back at Waylon. "You could be so beautiful. Just, no more games, please."

Waylon obediently sat on the table. He looked nervously at the buzzsaw, so close to him. It gleamed innocently.

"Have you thought of our children?" Gluskin enquired. For a wild moment Waylon pictured his two sons with Gluskin-esque clothing on. He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. At this Gluskin frowned.

"You would take good care of them, wouldn't you? You wouldn't go running off and leave them alone in the dark?"

When Waylon shook his head again, Gluskin fell silent, deep in thought. After a minute he looked up at Waylon.

"Then the only way to stop you from playing your games is if our children are here."

Waylon knew exactly want he meant. He could see the buzzsaw, glinting menacingly out of the corner of his eye. A rough hand rested on his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the groom.

"You are willing to raise our children, aren't you?" Gluskin asked. "You won't abandon them?"

Waylon didn't move. If he shook his head, his fate was sealed. Flesh would meet saw and his screams wouldn't be heard by anyone but Gluskin. If he died - which he most certainly would - his body would be cursed and insulted and left to rot.

On the other hand, if he chose to say he would abandon their children, Gluskin would surely interrogate him and end up killing him anyway. His plan was already failing.

Waylon tried to conjure the expression he used when looking at Lisa. He exhaled slowly before looking at Gluskin with what he hoped were loving eyes. He licked his dry lips.

"If you loved me," he said, voice raspy, "you wouldn't do it to me."

It took Gluskin only a second to register this but it felt like an eternity to Waylon. The groom looked at him, first with suspicion, then with surprise. It was the first time Waylon had spoken to him with words and the sentence was wholly unexpected.

"Darling …"

For the first time Gluskin was speechless. After a few minutes of incredulous staring he said, "It won't hurt much. I have an anesthetic."

"If you truly loved me you wouldn't feel the need to change me in any way," Waylon persisted. Gluskin's eyebrows drew together in an expression of musing and frustration.

"I can see what you're trying to say," he said after a short pause. Waylon's heart was pounding. He felt sure that, if it wasn't for the lump in his throat, his palpitating heart would choke him. The tension in the air was palpable as he and Gluskin stared at one another. Waylon's fear was almost tangible, like it was radiating off of him in waves. Gluskin continued.

"Darling, the procedure … it's to rid you of vulgarities. But you're insisting that you need not go through with it?"

Waylon nodded, which deepened the thoughtful look on Gluskin's face.

"You're trying to have a full fighting chance for our children."

Nod. Gluskin sighed before looking at the stationary buzzsaw. Waylon gulped as the groom moved over to it. The blade began spinning rapidly with a high-pitched whirring sound. It was working fine.

"First, I need to test the anesthetic, darling," Gluskin told Waylon after the saw had slowed and stopped. Waylon had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming but couldn't stop it.

Gluskin telling him to look away. The prick of a needle in his upper arm. The spinning saw, voracious and loud. Gluskin telling him to hold a hand out.

"If it doesn't hurt you," he was saying, "then I know the anesthetic works."

Waylon extended a violently tremulous hand towards the saw, attempting to quieten and slow his ragged breathing. If he couldn't stop his hand shaking then he wouldn't have a right hand to worry about in a minute.

Gluskin just wanted a small slit down his palm, not a hand which was missing fingers. Waylon sucked in a long breath. His hand was mere millimeters away from the rotating saw.

Waylon closed his eyes and stuck his hand forwards. He heard a sound that was liking shredding wet paper before retracting his hand, cradling it against his chest.

First, there was nothing. Then came the pain like a steam train to his nerves. His hand felt as if it had burnt into flames- the pain was almost unbearable and it made him feel physically sick.

His mouth stretched into a rictus, Waylon bent double, clutching his hand to his chest. The anesthetic was useless; his hand was bleeding all over the dress. Leaning over the edge of the table, Waylon choked up bile.

"Darling, it's all right," Gluskin reassured, turning off the buzzsaw. He then took Waylon's injured hand and wrapped strips of cloth tightly around the mutilated palm. The cloth strips were filthy and mottled with dry blood.

Gluskin held his shuddering bride close to him, soothing her whimpers and wiping away her tears. She held her bandaged hand close to her, pressing it against the bloodstains on her dress front, with her unharmed hand over it, like she was protecting it.

Eventually the crying had stopped and she could sit up on her own. Her palms rested on the table she was sat on; the pain must have faded to an ache.

"Darling, I'm so sorry," Gluskin said. Waylon looked up at him, scared and hoping against hope that the groom would reconsider his offer.

"You mean you won't do it to me?" he whispered. Gluskin looked at him. "The anesthetic doesn't work and that could harm our … our children."

Waylon tried desperately to not think of his own sons. He could picture Lisa's face as the groom slowly nodded and Waylon, relieved for now, fell limply against Gluskin's arm.

_[A/N: In Gluskin's dialogue, there was a part not used in the game where he mentions how he forgot to give Waylon an anesthetic, so that's why he has one in the fanfiction.]_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

The angry roar made the hairs on the back of Waylon's neck rise.

He had escaped. He didn't remember how; all he knew was that he was now pushing a heavy metal cabinet thing away from a door. He squeezed through the tiny gap before closing the door. He hoped Gluskin's chest was too broad to fit.

After running through mazes for what felt like years, Waylon burst into a room. It was a disgusting bathroom. There was blood sprayed all over the floor and walls. Tiny bugs fled from his feet.

There was a trolley with instruments of either surgery or torture on it. As he looked at this, Waylon fell over a wheelchair that was sitting in the way.

Even in the dim light he could see the blood trails down the wheels and crusted red splattered around the wheelchair. There were straps which must have been used to tie someone down.

Waylon recoiled at a fetid odor. There was an old pool of vomit next to a dirty sink.

"Darling, you're testing my patience!"

The voice sounded further away. Waylon scrambled to get out of the bathroom and found himself standing opposite a male Variant. Chris Walker looked down.

"Little pig," he growled in a guttural voice. Waylon cried out and tried to back-pedal to safety. A solid fist connected with his jaw and sent him tumbling backwards. Waylon's ears were ringing and his head cracked into the trolley. He coughed blood. The only sound he could hear was a faint rattling of chains as Walker came closer.

A thick hand closed around Waylon's neck and lifted him into the air. Kicking at the air and trying to pull Walker's fingers away, Waylon felt his face reddening. His lungs were useless and his eyes closed.

Then he was falling and landing hard on the floor. Bugs skittered away from him as he hit down. Chris Walker was leaving. He had heard something.

Right now, Waylon didn't care. He massaged his bruised throat as he stood, eyes watering and lungs heaving. He tiptoed to the door and peered out. Nothing.

Waylon left the room and abruptly ducked behind a table. He could hear Walker returning, the massive Variant growling under his breath.

"Little pig …" Walker entered the room. Waylon bolted as fast as his weakening legs would allow him, wishing the dress wasn't so long.

Almost there ... he could see faint daylight through a window.

"Darling, don't run from me!"

Gluskin was giving chase as Waylon made the final stretch towards the window. So close now, so near to freedom-

"No, don't! Don't!" Gluskin called. Waylon jumped.

The window shattered and he was falling, falling in a shower of glass, until he smacked onto dirt. All the air was knocked brutally from him. Waylon lay, winded, cursing his life.

After trying to catch his breath he managed to inhale slightly and pushed himself to his knees. Sparse grass dotted the ground and he could see trees surrounding him.

Waylon pushed himself to his feet. Glass had sliced through the bandage on his hand and his head was throbbing at the back. He gingerly touched a hand to his occiput and his hand came back red. His hair was matted with blood.

Damn Walker. Damn Gluskin. Damn everyone, he was getting out alive. Waylon made to pull the ring off his finger but there was a tiny shard of glass embedded deep in the middle knuckle of his left ring finger. He swore breathlessly.

He was surprisingly unharmed by the glass, other than the bit in his finger. He hadn't punctured a lung or sliced any arteries so far, and for that he was glad.

Then, as he made to limp away, Waylon noticed something was wrong. His chest hurt badly. Very badly. It hurt to breath; he could only take small, shallow breaths to reduce the pain.

There was only one answer: broken ribs. They could take months to heal. At least Gluskin and Chris Walker were gone.

Waylon made it three steps before tipping forwards onto his face.

Bright lights blinded Waylon.

"Open those eyes. You don't have to wake up, but open your eyes."

Andrew? Was Waylon reliving his memories, was he going crazy at last? He hoped to god that it wasn't Andrew.

His eyes flickered open. He was lying on a metal bed frame on a damp mattress. There was nobody around. Bandages swathed him over the ripped dress. He twisted and groaned. He ached.

Waylon sat up. Although he ached with fatigue, his ribs no longer hurt. Had they healed or was he on a good anesthetic?

He tentatively tried to stand. His legs buckled beneath him.

"Oh, no, no, don't strain yourself yet."

It was a familiar voice, but not Gluskin's. The voice was a lot kinder and soft-spoken. Waylon looked up as a hand helped him back onto the bed. It was a man dressed in a straitjacket fashioned to accommodate his arms. Two straps made a large cross across the front.

"Who…?" Waylon croaked. His tongue felt like sandpaper.

"Ah, forgive me. I am Father Martin Archimbaud. Who are you, then?"

Waylon tried to talk but his mouth was too dry. Father Martin noticed and offered a glass of dirty water. At one time in his life, Waylon would have dismissed the water, assuming it was contaminated with disease. Now he didn't care. He eagerly accepted it, gulping down the water like it was nectar.

"So, my son, what is your name?" Father Martin asked.

"Waylon Park," Waylon answered. He looked around then down at himself and the bandages. "How did I get here?"

"I found you outside, a lost lamb in the darkness. I set them in place and then let God heal you Himself."

"How long?"

"You have been here, under His watchful eye and His care for six weeks."

More than six weeks away from Lisa and his children. Waylon wondered if they thought he had left them. He wondered if they thought he was dead. He wondered if they cared anymore.

"Can I go?" Waylon asked. Father Martin looked at him.

"Only if you feel well enough, my son. If He has healed you then you are free to go, and He will watch over you."

Waylon stood. His legs trembled a little but managed to hold up his weight. The dress hung loosely off his frame, as he was skinnier than he had been six weeks ago. Father Martin watched him go with a small, caring smile.

After ten minutes of walking Waylon found himself in a familiar place. He was facing a table with a buzzsaw at the end. Standing on the other side of the room, facing away from Waylon, was Gluskin. He hadn't noticed Waylon yet.

Waylon's breathing stopped. He stepped backwards as lightly as he could without alerting the groom to his presence. His foot landed on a loose board which creaked. Waylon froze and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw Gluskin turning slowly.

Two cold blue eyes fixed on him and a thin smile spread across Gluskin's face.

"Darling?" he grinned. Waylon knew it was the end. Gluskin grabbed him by the neck and looked down. In his hand was a knife which he held up.

Waylon jerked and his mouth opened in a silent scream. The sharp blade plunged into his side two more times and blood dripped down his chin. Waylon was thrown onto the floor, his head smacking down hard. His vision blurred and darkened at the edges.

The last thing Waylon Park saw was Eddie Gluskin raising a foot above his head with a cold smile.

"Goodnight, darling."


End file.
